Totally Unfair
by eliazeravenfeather
Summary: It's unfair. Totally unfair, Qrow decides. How come Clover gets to be at the top of the top, leader of the Ace Ops, Atlas's most elite task force, and look so healthy and happy? And so cute to top it off? In which everyone is insecure and deserves compliments and eventually gets some, Qrow and Clover are badasses, Weiss is best girl, and Marrow is a good boi. Fair game.
1. Over the Crow's Nest

It's unfair. Totally unfair, Qrow decides, crossing his arms with a frustrated frown.

Life is unfair, his mind oh-so-helpfully supplies, and after a lifetime of unfortunate events Qrow could not be more convinced. Still, he would have thought that being a genius, being one of a kind, came with its share of pain and suffering. That he had to pay the price for being one of Remnant's most renowned Hunstmen by bearing the pain, the thirst, the mourning, the brokenness. That being brilliant always came with being broken, as only through the cracks could the light come through. So, how come Clover gets to be at the top of the top, leader of the Ace Ops, Atlas's most elite task force, and look so healthy and happy? And so _cute _to top it off?

Qrow nonchalantly grabbed the steaming hot cup of coffee Weiss handed him on her way to her seat. The ex-heiress walked past him to regain the chair next to Ruby, crossing her legs regally as she sat. He blinks, and the next second Marrow startles slightly in the seat right before him, burnt by the dark beverage Jaune had managed to spill onto the dog faunus's pristine white uniform. Just Qrow's luck, really. Qrow doesn't even sigh, he doesn't any more after all this time. The coffee break already dissolved into the next strategic meeting, and he only distractedly listens as Winter drones on while pointing at brightly coloured stick figures against a washed-out snowy white map on the screen.

He remembers back then, the Tribe, the red earth that crumbled to dust under worn out shoes. Red dirt, red like blood. He remembers lying down on the red ground, looking up at the sky as flocks of black birds flew by. He remembers how dirt got everywhere, in pockets, in socks, under fingernails, how you could pick up a handful to red dust and feel the Earth turn as the grains flowed between your fingers, like sand grains in an hourglass. How one felt tiny, insignificant, like a bug under a shoe.

Raven and Qrow would sneak away from the camp to squat in the dirt and catch bugs. Sometimes they'd make it a contest. But whenever she sat near him, the bugs always got away, into her thick mane of hair, pestering her. So she ended up squishing them between her hands and wipe the blood off her palms against the sandy floor, red against red.

Qrow has grown up from nothing, and is entitled to nothing. No fame, no name to live up to, no noble destiny, not even a meagre share of happiness he could grow like a puny patch of garden under the sun. He doesn't deserve the kids, how amazing they turned out, and how they became his adoptive family. He doesn't deserve love, because a dire fate awaits everyone who so much as sits near him. Everyone, apparently, apart from Clover.

"Got a second, Qrow?"

The Ace Op brightly grins, as usual, as he drops into the chair Marrow left. The rest of the teams is leaving for lunch, but Qrow isn't really feeling hungry. Neither is Clover, apparently.

"What's it about? You figured out why Winter hates me so much?" the Huntsman sighs, cocking a half-curious eyebrow.

"I don't think she does," Clover shrugs, his arm wrapped against the back of the seat as he turns to face Qrow, who cannot help but notice the sculptural bicep right before his eyes. "She admires you just as much as the rest of us, it's just a bit harder for her to admit it. You should talk to her some time..."

"So, what did you want to tell me?"

"The stats came in for last week's mission."

The Ace Op produces a scroll from the pocket of his - _tight, form-fitting, uncannily flattering_ \- uniform, and presents a table of numbers under Qrow's nose. Ammo usage, Aura levels, velocity and force sensors from weapons, measurements from drone cameras hovering above fights… in Atlas, everything can be reduced to a table of numbers.

"So? This doesn't look bad, right?" Qrow speaks slowly, peering through the white figures on the brightly lit blue background. "86% hit rate on ranged attacks, 97% on melee, minimum Aura level during combat above 3/5. I would have thought we make a pretty good pair on the field… is there a problem?"

"No, why must you always assume there is a problem? The expert analysts who stare at those numbers all day were just suggesting we… branch out a little, as they say, see if that helps the stats of other groups."

Clover slides a finger across the scroll, displaying similar tables for Weiss and Ruby, for Marrow and Blake… but the Huntsman interrupts him, grabbing the device from his hand. Qrow pauses for a second - Clover's fingers feel warm, smooth, rather nice.

"I don't know what you heard about us, but this isn't how we Huntsmen work. We don't have to look at the numbers. We don't compute probabilities, we just feel the luck. Or lack thereof, more often than not."

"Speak for yourself," Clover shrugs, a glint of playfulness in his teal glare.

"What I mean is, you and I are damage control. Your Semblance nullifies mine, no one gets in trouble, no one gets hurt. I don't want to risk being paired up with any of the kids..."

"First off, those stats are hardly damage control, Qrow. They're pretty stellar. Second, the Ace Ops aren't kids any more, and the teams you brought here are full Huntsmen now."

"Harriet, Marrow and all? Still kids to me. It's not like it wouldn't hurt just as much if something happened to them because of me."

"I understand. In fact, I understand in more ways than you can think. I'm responsible for the Ace Ops, as their leader, just as you feel responsible for the kids. I wouldn't let anything happen to them."

There is something tense, almost _dangerous _in the way Clover's jaw clenches as he speaks these words. His Mr perfect mask is slipping and Qrow is uncertain what he'll find underneath. He leans back in his chair and draws in a deep breath before responding.

"Look, pretty boy. If this is your way to say you want away from me and back with your team, I get it. And I… respect it. That would be one of the more reasonable decisions in your lifetime."

The Ace Op seems at a loss for words, and for an instant the older man wonders if he's hit a nerve. For a second, he feels bad for the _boy_, and the next moment he realises that was exactly what Clover berated him for. Qrow runs a hand through his hair, as if before a fight, and the Atlesian only dares to steal furtive glances while resolutely staring at some specks of dirt on the floor.

"You don't realise how… how honoured I am that you're OK with partnering with me. You're something of a living legend to people like us, people like you encouraged us to take up weapons and train to fight Grimm. I just wanted to make sure you were really fine with it, with me keeping you all for myself, so to speak… and you really are fine with it. Because of my Semblance, it turns out, I should've figured. Right, it was good talking with you. Duty calls… I mean, lunch calls…"

Qrow watched in surprise as the Operative got up and left in a bumbling, blushing, lip-biting almost _timid _mess. Only the silhouette of his shapely behind in that impossibly tight white uniform as he exited the room interrupted Qrow from his reflections on how cute and _innocent _Atlesian was being.

"Hey, Ebi," he called out, stopping the Ace Op straight in his tracks. "It's not just about the Semblance. It's not just about the stats. For us Huntsmen, when the action is thickest and the adrenaline is pumping, it's always been about how we feel, in here," he spoke hesitantly, lightly pressing his palm to his heart. "And I'm bad at putting it down in words, but I'm not... feeling too worried when out on missions with you."

"Thanks, Qrow. Means a lot to me. You know, you deserve to feel safe and good too, sometimes, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Who knows, maybe you should stop worrying and treat yourself to some lunch, sometime."

If Qrow's hand still rested on his chest, he would no doubt have noticed his heart racing ever so slightly faster as Clover winked and left the room.

* * *

Before the Grimm's body even has time to crumble into dust, Qrow withdraws his blade, collapsing it from scythe to broadsword form. Around them, the rope of Kingfisher dances a lethal ballet, blocking every Nevermore feather shot at them and preventing any Grimm from approaching them, efficient as an impenetrable barrier. Qrow and Clover stand back to back, the Huntsman quickly growing accustomed to his partner's presence as he holds his sword up in a high guard.

"Yes sir," he hears Clover report, no doubt to Ironwood through comms. "Qrow and I will be delayed, but we'll manage, the situation here is - "

"Pretty grim," Qrow finishes, "no pun intended. We're outnumbered. Even if we can dislodge the Nevermore nest, it's not guaranteed we can do anything about the cracks the dam suffered from the nest's weight, before the water breaks out."

_With my luck_, Qrow thinks to himself, but doesn't say out loud. He turns his weapon into gun mode to shoot at the smaller Nevermores.

"Do you need backup?" came the General's commanding voice.

"No!" both partners manage to yell in sync, and Clover cuts the line after a quick "we'll be fine thanks".

"Are you going to tell me you have a plan, or are you just being your usual optimistic self?" the Huntsman asked.

"I have a plan, but it's gonna require more than luck..."

_More than your luck?_

"I'm all ears," Qrow smirks while firing deafening rounds to scare off the mother Nevermore.

"If I can get the hook of Kingfisher onto the nest, we can get it to dangle over the cracks on the dam, and pin it on with this ice dust crystal, which should hopefully hold until Penny can come seal the cracks back together with her lasers."

"You have an ice dust crystal? How the hell?"

"You know the 6P rule: Prior Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance, or so they say."

"I for one think you're just being insufferably lucky."

"But the mother protects the nest, which is fifty feet above us..."

"OK. Trust me."

".. and my rope isn't long enough to get past her, and we don't have enough Dust to seal the cracks, so we really need the nest, and..."

"I said, trust me."

Qrow has grabbed the Atlesian's hand to force him to listen, and for a second they stand, warm palms touching, strong fingers laced together. A fierce flame flickers in his crimson orbs.

"Do you trust me?" he whispers, each syllable pouring directly into the younger man's ear.

Clover nods, and then Qrow's gone.

The Ace Op feels a gentle tug at the end of his fishing rod. He glances upward - and sees the small black bird grasping the hook in its talons, ebony wings flapping as it soared toward the nest, burning red eyes recognisable among millions. The crow circles the Nevermore mother, almost playfully, tauntingly, too fast for her sharp beak to harm. Diving down in an agile curve, the smaller bird manages to wrap Kingfisher's rope around the Grimm's leg, keeping her at bay, and plunges toward the nest. The monster croaks indignantly, but Qrow already reverts to his human form as soon as he lands onto the nest in a perfect three-point landing, his left hand hooking immediately Clover's weapon onto the giant mess of branches and twigs behind him. In one swift move, he draws Harbinger from behind his back, tattered cape floating in the air. The low hum of rotating clockwork echoes through the dam, and seconds later his weapon is deployed in full scythe mode, facing his avian enemy. From below, the Operative cannot help but gaze in awe.

Before he realises, dozens of smaller Grimm dive down toward Clover like vultures towards a carcass. He's outnumbered, now more than ever, and only has the rod of Kingfisher to defend himself. Taking a deep breath, he holds up the pole like a staff and thrusts at the closest bird. Feints, parries and swings his weapon in a complex orbit, connecting with half a dozen Grimm in the same smooth gesture. Bounces, suspending himself on the rod like a gymnast, propels himself using the birds as stepping stones before they fall down to dust. But the Grimm come too close, pecking at his arms and forcing him to lose his grip. When he lands into a crouch, he must protect his face with his elbow while reaching for his weapon. Dark wings and feathers dance into his field of vision, then he closes his eyes. He swings above his head with Kingfisher, and a white ring of Aura ripples out from his body, clearing the remaining Grimm around him. He exhales and looks upward, checking his partner's progress.

Qrow is prancing around the edge of the nest like a tightrope walker, spinning his scythe in deadly circles too fast for the eye to follow, striking with surgical precision. In a single diagonal slash, he clips off one of the mother's wings, causing her behemoth weight to collapse into the nest. Her beak falls mere inches from his face as he stumbles backward, off balance. As he glances down, almost tumbling, he finds his partner running at full speed, employing the rod of his weapon to execute a pole jump upward toward the nest. His body traces a graceful arc as he pounces. Catching the rope at the highest point of his jump, he runs vertically upward against the side of the dam. The giant Nevermore screeches in surprise as the Ace Op jumped over her back, alas, too late. He traps the bird's neck with the pole part of Kingfisher, holding the monster in a chokehold. He simply nods at Qrow, and the Huntsman lowers his broadsword with both hands, severing the Grimm's head from the rest of her body.

The two men stood as the monster between them dissolved like soot particles into thin air.

"You didn't tell me you could turn into a -"

Before Clover can finish, the nest trembles, dislodged during the fight, as the dam below starts to crumble. In the blink of an eye, Qrow catches Kingfisher's rod, holding the dam in place with one hand, while his other arm wraps around Clover's shoulders and secures him in place just before he can fall over the edge. The shapeshifter mentally thanks his reflexes enhanced by a life of disastrous situations. Even though a bewildered, smirking Clover's presence in his arms - _right where he belongs_, Qrow's mind unhelpfully suggests - doesn't seem half disastrous at all.

"My turn to get saved today," the Operative murmurs jokingly, his breath hot against the Huntsman's cheek. "Lucky me."

"If you don't pull the nest up over the cracks with that fishing rod of yours, it will be a very _unlucky _death for both of us when the whole dam collapses," Qrow quips back.

"Sorry, on it. And thanks for saving me."

Qrow would have sworn he saw a pang of regret in those breathtaking green eyes as the younger man extracts himself from his embrace and adjusted his weapon expertly to drag the nest onto cracks against the dam's concrete. The shapeshifter plants the blade of Harbinger into the ground and holds his weapon with one hand, grabbing Clover's arm with the other to ensure the weight of the nest doesn't drag him down. That, and _maybe _other reasons. *

"Ready?" Clover asks as he produces a silvery blue Dust crystal from his belt and juggles with it in one hand.

"When you are, Ebi."

The Ace Op tosses the crystal over the cliff. Just as it fell, Qrow draws his weapon, switches into shotgun mode and fires a single bullet at the Dust, shattering it into a myriad of ice shards that pin the nest in place against the damaged wall. The two partners stare in relief at the averted crisis below them.

"Lucky shot, huh?" Clover teases, winking again.

"I don't think much of what I saw today from you was luck," Qrow comments, staring into the distance. "But rather, a little talent, and a lot of skill."

Qrow makes a point to look over the cliff as he speaks, and away from the Operative, but he's quite certain he can practically _hear _the other man blushing, if that's even possible.

"General Ironwood, this is Ace Operative Clover speaking," he eventually calls out through comms. "Mission complete, targets neutralised, and perimeter secured."

"Ironwood to Clover. Excellent, sending Penny for structural reinforcements. The airship out to collect you is on its way. Over."

Qrow only realises, alas, a tad later, that the Ace Op really doesn't mind that the Huntsman has been holding his hand the whole time.

* * *

**Note: ****long time no see, I know, I know. Can't recall how to even use this site any more. I wrote the fic in one sitting but realised it was super long, so I split it into a two-shot. Will probably still edit the second part, should be up around Thursday. So stay tuned, warm, and safe xx**


	2. Instead of the cross, the Albatross

**Warning: mentioned alcoholism and recovery. I don't know much about it and don't have any experience, glad for any feedback in the comments.**

Qrow needs a drink. He really needs a drink.

First, it has been a long day, full of meetings, briefings, training with Oscar and Ironwood, and the General tensely staring at everyone with clenched jaw and clenched fists. Second, that little brat Marrow asked him for a spar, and he still has no idea why he accepted, maybe Clover and Ruby's insufferable positivity is starting to rub off him a tad much to his liking. Third, the dog faunus hadn't done half bad, and Qrow hadn't needed to hold back as much as he'd thought, which did nothing good for Qrow's pride. Fourth, the more he thought about it, the more the Huntsman regretted not having properly praised the boy for his good work. In more bothering ways than one, he saw some of himself in the lone young faunus in Atlas, born from nothing, entitled to nothing, not even a bone from the table of the rich and the wealthy. The lone young faunus who had climbed to the top and joined the Ace Ops only with the strength of his dirty nails, only with sheer determination and hard work, and a rather convenient Semblance. In hindsight, Qrow wouldn't have minded some encouraging words from a more experienced warrior, when he was Marrow's age. And of course, Qrow being Qrow, he could hardly help but beat himself over it, bitter at his own negativity and coldness toward Marrow.

And last, but certainly not least, their training ground sits next to Weiss and Winter's, which means he's in for being yelled at as he walks by on his way to the showers. Be it about the Scroll he broke during his last mission or something or other, there is no way he will get out of that frictionlessly, which is precisely why he needs a drink.

He can barely contain his whole body from shaking. The ache, the thirst, pulsing at his body at each heartbeat, each step taken, each feeling like a mountain to climb. The tiredness, the need to numb the pain, the pain that builds up, always, again, until he cannot bear it any more. The weight on his shoulders, the weight dragging those bags under his eyes down, always down, the weight nothing can wash away. Nothing other than a good gulp of whiskey. He wants, no, he needs to feel _something_, something that will make him forget the pain, even for a fleeting instant. Something like the adrenaline rush of a fight, of a flight against the night's dark skies, but _stronger_. Everything is washed out and hazy, and the blue lines of the training room against the black square blocks are too bright.

The sharp white glyphs that light up the space don't help. The sisters, or rather, Schneesters, are competing at some form of time dilation, swords held in graceful, focused poses. The shapeshifter sloppily salutes as he passes, wishing he could just fade into the background and be left alone for once.

"A word, Qrow."

The Huntsman suppresses a sigh, bracing himself for the argument to come. He swivels warily, but to his surprise the interjection doesn't come from Winter, but Weiss. The newly minted Huntress practically drags him by the collar into the closest changing room and forcibly pins him against the lockers, Myrtenaster firmly pointed at him.

"Thanks, kid,'' he utters, his tiredness more obvious in his tone than he'd have liked. "For saving me from your dictator of a sister."

"I know this look," Weiss sneers, cocking a silver eyebrow. "And it doesn't look good."

From how close she stands, she has no trouble seeing his trembling hands, his sweaty palms, his recovering alcoholic's urge flickering in his crazed eyes.

"How do _you _know anything about it?"

"I… my mother. It started gradually… but these days she hardly has anyone to turn to other than the bottle and our trusted butler."

"Well, when your husband is Jacques Schnee and both your pretty daughters are away in the military, I can see how that can happen..."

"You have no idea how much I wish I could help her..."

"But you can't so you're trying to clear your conscience by helping me instead. You don't have to, snow angel. Nobody has to. I don't deserve it, I'm beyond saving. You'll only hurt yourself if you stay near me. You should beware of sharp objects when you're around me, put that away," he gestures to the tip of her rapier, wandering dangerously close to his neck.

She puts the weapon away at her belt, looking down to her feet.

"But I thought you were recovering… no, I _know _you're recovering, and I know it's hard. I can see it's a hard day. I don't care what the reasons are, how insignificant they may seem. Some days, every smallest step feels like slaying a whole herd of Grimm and then some. And that's fine."

"Your point? Other than the pointy end of the sword, I mean."

"I thought I could help by avoiding your confrontation with Winter today. You two will have to talk some day or other, but now sounds like a bad time."

"Thanks for that, but now you should just leave me alone and go back to showing Ice Queen who's boss in the training field."

"You see Winter as this perfect soldier, born with a silver spoon in her mouth, rising through the ranks of Atlesian military through her name rather than her talent. But I can assure you that's not the case. We went through a great deal of hardships in our childhood, a great deal of isolation. I'm not denying that we were born fortunate, in a world of wealth and power, and I'm thankful for that, but you and Winter have more in common than you realise."

"Oh, so that's what you came for. Matchmaking me with your sister."

"No, just telling you about this, about our past, since she'd be too proud to admit it. Actually you're both too proud to just listen to each other instead of fighting constantly."

"So you're telling me I can bond with Winter over the fact that her mum's a drunkard too?"

"I'm telling you she admires you, Qrow, and she envies how carefree you get to appear, while being one of the finest Huntsmen in the field. We've been raised to hide our feelings and be prim and proper to uphold the family name, you see. And of course, she won't tell you any of that, because of how prim and proper she is. And she won't tell you part of why she resents you is due to how alcohol fractured our family. So please keep that in mind next time you get out there and confront her. "

"Right. On the bright side, at least you're not asking me to marry her."

"Clover wouldn't approve of that," she remarks, tilting her head, her large braid swinging lazily by her side.

"Not sure what you mean by that," he comments, confused, "but Papa Schnee wouldn't approve for certain."

"We'll well past that these days, I think. He won't stand in the way of the destinies Winter and I choose for ourselves, for better or for worse."

"As long as it doesn't involve anyone marrying me, it should be for better more than worse."

"When I was younger I thought we were entitled to a great destiny, and simultaneously burdened with the nigh impossible task of living up to the family name. No I realise we all get to choose in the end, run with what we're given, and fight for the happiness we deserve. Yes, all of us, even you, Qrow. You deserve to be happy, no matter what you tell yourself because of your Semblance."

"Right now all I _deserve _is a shower and a good night's rest."

"Your notion of happiness sounds so reasonable, I'm almost surprised."

He languidly brushes her aside, without any resistance from her, and paces toward the showers next to the locker room. He desperately craves the burn of near-boiling water against his skin, how it would almost cleanse his aches, numb his pains, _almost _make him forget the need for another liquid to burn the insides of his body. But he still changes his mind and turns around to face the blue-eyed Huntress.

"Hey, snow angel… Weiss. Thanks for the pep talk, kid. That helped more than you can realise. I'm so proud of you, all of you, of what you've become. I can see everything we've been through helped you tell me what you just told me about your past, about your family. It must've been hard, I know it must've, and I'm grateful for that. I'm glad Ruby and Yang have you as a teammate and friend. "

"I am delighted to hear it," she dips her head politely, "and I cannot thank you enough for Yang and Ruby and how you've trained them to be the great Huntresses and friends they have become. You deserve more credit for that."

"Well, at least the day can still end on a positive note. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll head to the shower."

The ex-heiress furrows her brow slightly as she concurs:

"Smells like a good idea."

* * *

The warm humidity is welcome to Qrow as he enters of the shared training ground showers, heat is always pleasant after a long day in dreary cold Atlas. Puffs of steam cloud his face for a few seconds, but when they clear his jaw drops at the sight before his eyes.

On the wet tile floor, basking in the white half-light, Clover sits, entirely naked, back to the wall and hugging his knees to his chest. Qrow's heart misses a beat; water droplets glisten against the alabaster skin, playing with the dim, cold lighting overhead to highlight the muscular shape of the Operative's body, the stunning way gentle curves and sharp angles meld together. He sits perfectly still, slumping, slack-jawed, muscles completely unflexed. The shapeshifter takes a step back as the younger man's red-rimmed green eyes, staring vaguely into the void, raise to meet Qrow's. He's never seen the stunning teal orbs, usually so composed and perfect and radiating with almost annoying positivity, filled with such anguish and exhaustion like storm clouds too wary of containing the rain.

"... should I leave?" the Huntsman mutters, uncertain.

"No, stay!" Clover cries out, looking away.

Qrow doesn't respond, he doesn't know how to respond, so he stands and stares silently.

"I mean, you can stay, if you'd like, of course… but I get it if you don't want to," the Ace Op amends more softly.

Qrow isn't sure what to do, isn't sure what he's doing, but the next moment he's draping his towel around his bare shoulders and crouching next to Clover. He moves slowly, feeling the rough texture of the Atlas Academy emblazoned towel against his skin, feeling each moment, not thinking about what comes next.

"Well, these are shared showers after all, so you won't be able to get rid of me so easily. May I?"

Before he realises, Qrow's hand has moved toward the Atlesian's shoulder, hovering over the soft wet skin, the sharpness of the protruding joint and the roundness of the well-shaped muscles underneath. Clover shortly nods and leans into the touch.

"I'm sorry, it's nothing, it's just… been a hard day," the younger man finally mumbles bashfully.

Qrow blinks in understanding, wondering if his Semblance makes the day harder for everyone around him whenever he's in a bad mood.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really. I'm just tired… And no it's not your fault, and I don't want yourself to beat yourself up over it."

Qrow really wonders if Clover has been reading his mind and seeing all those worries that shouldn't be his business - the Atlesian already has enough on his plate as is.

"Look, if we really have to do the sappy stuff, it's not about me, it's about you. Why must you always put others before yourself, be responsible for your team, for your partners, to the point of exhaustion, when you should be taking care of yourself?"

"Says who," Clover says warily without defiance, and Qrow just wants to hold him, to have him there and then, to _feel _something, quench the urge, the pain, the numbness, the crave…

But he wants to do at least one good thing today, to release the raw emotions bottled up within him, filling him to the brim. He wants to make someone else feel better, for once,

"I'm not done. I know how it feels. I know it sounds strange, because we have opposite Semblances and walks of life and I'm a disgrace beyond saving and you're goddamn perfect, but I know how it feels, the weight of that burden. I can tell how hard it must have been to prove yourself, how hard it still is, every day, every hour, every second. How everyone chalks everything up to the Semblance, over and over again, until you wake up in the morning and think you're nothing more than your stupid Semblance. Great combat prowess? Oh, that must be his Semblance, just his luck. Respect from teachers? Semblance. Success with women? Semblance. Rising in the ranks of the military? Semblance. Pairing with a supposedly famed Huntsman? Semblance. Amazing mission stats? Semblance."

"I… you..."

"Let me finish. You must hear all the Atlesians throwing all those numbers at you, all those combat stats, throwing so much _stuff _at you to deal with, because they think _it's no effort to him, his good luck will take care of it, look at how goods his stats are, numbers never lie_. Do you think I don't know? Right now I can see the scars you hide under that ridiculously becoming uniform of yours. Do you think I can't tell how much you doubt yourself, with all that bullcrap they throw at your face? How you put on a brave facade for the General and the cameras, how you put your life on the line every day for the team like it's nothing just to prove yourself? Do you think I don't know that deep down you ask yourself, in case your Aura and your luck run out, if you can protect them? If you can protect _me_?"

Qrow's fingers caress the fine web of scars mapping the Operative's torso, and the latter man makes no move to stop him. He traces every line across the crisscross of wounds in a series of feather-light touches.

"I will always protect you," Clover blurts out. "I don't know if I can, and I don't know how, but I swear I always will, I promise. Because I think I've made it pretty clear what are my feelings towards you, and I'm pathetic and hopelessly romantic like that."

"And I don't doubt a single second you'll succeed. And it's not because of the stats, I don't give a damn about that nonsense, you can go wipe your pretty ass with them. It's because when we fight together it feels _right_."

"What about… what about when we don't fight?"

Qrow cannot help but melt at the adorable glint of hope illuminating the timid teal eyes. But he steels himself and continues, because it wouldn't _feel right_ not to.

"When we don't fight, you keep telling me that I deserve my happiness or whatever, and I thought you wanted to tell me that there's a place for me under the sun, that it's gonna get better, it's gonna be alright. And I didn't believe it, because so many people have come to me before with these words… Ironwood, Glynda, Taiyang… Summer… and my stupid Semblance keeps proving them wrong, causing them harm, and things never get better. But still, they kept coming, they kept trying to fix me..."

"I don't want to fix you. Because in my eyes, you're not broken. You just need to be able to see it, in all your self-deprecating glory. I don't know what you tell yourself, that you're not good enough for this world, for the kids, for me, but you're more than enough. You're so much more than what you think."

"And so are you. And all that time, I've been unable to see it, I've been blind as hell, because I'm afraid. I'm afraid to take my destiny into my own hands, to claim my share of happiness you say I deserve. Afraid of being disappointed, not by you, but by me, by the fact that if I reach toward you, all my problems won't magically dissolve. If I... give in to your advances, it won't make my alcoholism go away, it won't end my frickin' Semblance, it won't bring everyone who died because of me back to life, and people will continue to die because that's just my luck, and you'll get hurt, and..."

Before he can finish, Clover placates a finger on Qrow's lips, and his digits are humid and soft and strong and enticing and burning hotter than liquor would ever burn down his throat and he mustn't give in not yet and wow Clover's so brave and hot and incredible -

"I know. I know, and I accept the consequences. I know it will hurt, and there will be ups and downs and more scars to my growing collection. I know I'll still wake up on bad days thinking I'm a worthless piece of trash with an overrated Semblance. And I'll never really prove myself, and you'll never really forgive yourself, because no one can promise things ever truly get better. No one, not even my good fortune. Still, despite all of that, can I kiss you?"

Qrow's throat is parched, consumed with desire, overcome with raw _feeling_, barely able to formulate coherent words.

"Yes… please."

The Ace Op grabs a fistful of Qrow's towel him and their lips meet. The Atlesian's lips are soft, warm and wet from his shower. Qrow's fingers tangle into Clover's short hair, dragging him even closer, desperate for more of _him_. They kiss clumsily, too gently and too powerfully all at once. But it's perfect, the Huntsman would not have changed a single slightest detail. His eyelids slide shut, the aches and craves fade into the background, and soon everything else dissolves: his heart sinks, his heart soars, Clover's lips are a lifeline and nothing else matters. It could be their Semblances balancing out, or the strange ways their destinies have chosen to interweave, he could never tell, but everything feels _right_. As they part, the older man swears he could feel a playful hint of tongue, perhaps teasing, eliciting a small choked gasp. It's been years, decades even, since Qrow can remember anyone ever kissing him like that.

"You should smile more often, you're cute like this" the Operative muses, gently cupping his partner's chin, sea green eyes flustered and bright.

"Young people these days, thinking they're entitled to demand everything from their elders..." Qrow teases back, as they both chuckle lightly. "Make me."

"Then come here."

The shapeshifter more than happily obliges, burying his face into the younger man's chiselled chest, trailing light kisses upward toward his neck as strong arms wrap around his shoulders, discarding the towel that drops into a nearby puddle. Impatiently, he kisses Clover square on the lips once more, pressing the man's muscular back against the wet shower wall. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss, to better taste his partner, earning a low hum of approval. The Huntsman's Semblance eventually kicks in again no doubt, as they both slide against the slippery wall and end up falling side by side on the floor, both breathless and still giggling.

As they lay on their backs on the warm ceramic floor, Qrow wordlessly cuddles up to his partner, resting his head against his warm sculptural chest as the Ace Op's arm circles his waist. In the silence, Qrow can feel the Earth turn and Clover's strong regular heartbeat against his ear as time trickles by like water, slowly, inexorably. Maybe life isn't so unfair after all.

* * *

**Note: SO much talking this chapter. Mostly because this ship is so cute but I don't think they can get together in good conscience without coming to terms with Qrow's baggage first, and the realisation that some of it will never go away and things won't just get better. Hope you like my take on Clover, not that much to go off of but liking the idea he would be quite different in more intimate settings. Anyway, super happy to hear your thoughts in the comments. No idea what to write next from there, so suggestions welcome and I might take up some of them. Till then, stay tuned, hydrated, and safe xx**


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